COMFORT.

We have food, and we have water. We have animals––both big and small––a scenic forest, a creek and plenty of nature, but the one thing we cannot offer visitors is much in the way of comfort. Comfort is rare here.It has occurred to me over this last year or so just how uncomfortable our lifestyle is. Especially in the heat of the summer. Not that we don't experience any comfort on the farm, but that it comes in small, ornery bursts. It comes in the moments before we get out of bed when the the heat has finally left our cabin. (Or those few minutes in the morning before the fire gets going.) Sometimes, while we're working in the garden we get a cloud or two, maybe even a breeze. The creek provides some comfort, and rain can be comfortable––when it comes at least. But for the most part, comfort is not the norm.And I sometimes find myself feeling guilty for it when people visit, because I know most people are used to air-conditioning, showers, running water, and all the other conveniences that create comfort, and are standard in the city. We can't offer them. But perhaps what we can offer is something altogether more rich: we can offer the chance to learn to deeply appreciate comfort. Because when the majority of your life is uncomfortable, you learn to savor the moments when you are visited by comfort.It is nearly impossible to get through a day on our farm without a few new bug bites, a tick or two, a sunburn, and sweating through a shirt. Off-grid farming is itchy and sweaty and dirty and smelly and the days seem to last forever. Then come the nights which are equally as itchy and sweaty, though never long enough. But like I said, sometimes there are moments of comfort, and never do we not appreciate those moments. So perhaps my guilt for not being able to offer comfort is unfounded, because what we have to offer our visitors is something far more valuable, the chance to really appreciate all that goes into being comfortable, and how good comfort feels after a long, hot day of work.- Jesse.